I clear my throat, trying to regain my bearings. “How does a guy who’s twenty-one—”
“Twenty-two,” he corrects. “Soon to be twenty-three.”
I sigh. “Whatever. How does a guy your age afford a brand-new Hummer? One that’s pretty decked out, no less.”
He shrugs. “My parents are two of the most well-known defense attorneys in Maryland. They share the wealth with their kids.”
“You have siblings?”
“I do.” He turns onto Route 219. “An older sister.”
“Aww, you’re the baby in the family.”
“No ‘awws’ required. It was hell growing up with her.” Grinning, he pitches me a sidelong glance. “Between her monthly visitor and fighting over the phone and bathroom, I nearly lost my fucking mind before I hit puberty.”
I giggle, seeing his point.
After a moment, I relax my head against the window, watching the scenery melt into nothing but lush green. Thin ribbons of blue sky cut through an array of trees against a mountainous backdrop. For a brief second, a sense of peace runs through me, something I’m not used to. Before I can settle into the foreign feeling, my attention jolts from the rare beauty when guitar chords from a song I haven’t heard in years begin to strum from the speakers.
I clear my throat, my body instantly plagued with unwelcomed memories. “Is this the radio or your personal playlist?” I ask, hearing the shakiness in my voice.
Brock holds up his phone. “It’s my playlist from Spotify.” He gives me a reluctant smile. “Go ahead, just say it.”
“Say what?” I question, confused.
“That I’m weird for listening to Ray LaMontagne.”
“No, it’s not that at all. I love him. I grew up listening to all his songs.” The haunting words of “Lesson Learned” reverberate in my ears, Ray’s smoky voice as familiar as a cozy sweater. “My . . . my father used to play this for me on his guitar.”
“On his guitar?” Brock turns down a barren gravel road, and I already know the question perched on the tip of his tongue. “Is he a musician?”
Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Still, I had to ask. Ray LaMontagne isn’t an artist many in my generation find appealing. Just another reason my age bracket sucks. They wouldn’t know a good piece of music if it hit them on their heads.
Though he’s unaware of it, Brock Cunningham’s managed to sneak his way into my heart just from being different, in a good way.
“So come on. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” I gesture to, well, absolutely nothing. There’s nothing but nature around us. Pouting my lips for effect, some of the most disturbed horror film scenes spring through my mind as I attempt to change the subject away from my father. “Please tell me where you’re taking me.”
Diversion accomplished, Brock grins and points at a colossal sign saying: deep creek lake.
Duh. “A lake?”
“Not just a lake.” He stops the vehicle in front of the most breathtaking, God-touched creation I’ve ever seen. “It’s the largest, deepest lake in the state of Maryland.”
“It’s amazing.” I jump from the Hummer and with my arms spread wide, I spin in a circle, breathing in the fresh air. I come to a stop, my brow spiked in curiosity. “Do you have fishing poles with you?”
“Why, you fish?” Brock slips from the vehicle. “If ya do, I’m pretty fucking sure you’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
I take a graceful bow. “Well, then consider me the coolest fucking girl you’ve ever met. Fishing is one of my better addictions.”
“No shit, Miss Moretti,” he says with a smile as he opens the trunk and produces not only a cooler but two fishing poles.
“Would you stop calling me Miss Moretti?” I roll my eyes, getting annoyed with the whole Christian Grey thing. “And do you always carry a cooler with you?”
After he closes the trunk and sets everything on the ground, amusement glides along his face as he leans against the back passenger door. “No, but I had a feeling that a certain beautiful girl would show up to my practice. I also had a feeling that a certain beautiful girl would take a ride with me to the lake after practice. This here boy came prepared.”
I shake my head, a smile lifting my lips.
“And you don’t like when I call you Miss Moretti?”
I shrug and lean against the vehicle too. “Maybe if I were close to retirement I would.”
“It’s settled, then.” He sidles up next to me, lightly jerking his hip against mine. “I’ll kill calling you Miss Moretti, but I’m all for nicknames, especially for cool, beautiful girls who have a fishing addiction.”
“Are you?” My voice comes out thin, gauzy. I turn to look at him. Jesus. He’s as beautiful as they get, an eye-orgasm-worthy blend of rough and rugged, hard and soft.
Another jerk of his hip against mine, his breath curling over my neck as he dips his head to my ear. “I am,” he says, candy-shop seduction melting from his voice, the look in his eyes breaking down my battlements as a slow smile works his lips. “And I’ve decided my nickname for you will be . . . Ber.”
“Ber?” My breath falters as he steps in front of me, resting his hands on top of the Hummer. “Now you’re just being a wiseass.”
“Why? Besides never forgetting the cute embarrassment on your face when you said it, I think it fits you. I loved it the day we met, so I’m simply making it permanent.” His smile widens, the fire in his eyes imprisoning me. “It’ll be our private little joke. You might not like it now, but I’m gonna make you ache to be called it.”